


Sand

by mimarie



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-25
Updated: 2008-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-12 23:25:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimarie/pseuds/mimarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At least there's one thing in his life Rhys can rely on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sand

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently plot holes contain anti-bunnies, someone could have warned me.  
>  **spoilers:** TW S2:05  
>  **beta:** [](http://aeshna-uk.livejournal.com/profile)[**aeshna_uk**](http://aeshna-uk.livejournal.com/) and [](http://jwaneeta.livejournal.com/profile)[**jwaneeta**](http://jwaneeta.livejournal.com/)  
>  **disclaimer:** I own nothing but the happy space between my ears.

  
Sand. It's common sort of stuff. Ground down rock, quartz, mica - beaches full of it; so common no one really sees it. Borne in on the breeze, and caught in the sudden gust of an opening door. Flapped off a desk by a sudden book or a backside. Blown away. Forgotten.  
No. Not forgotten. To be forgotten it must once have been remembered, and there's nothing memorable about sand.

  
Cardiff is a wonderful place to live. It says so in the brochure. The remade wonder of Wales' capital: Commerce, culture and nightlife, a living, breathing, thriving city, with a rift in time and space at its heart.  
It doesn't say that in the brochure. It doesn't need to; spatio-temporal anomalies tend to advertise themselves, and the local Tourist officer is right on the spot if anyone has queries.

  
There's a warm wind blowing in off the Bay. High cloud to the south, a haze of night layering the horizon to the west just visible from the door of the Tourist Information centre.  
The breeze blows in the open door, rustling Ianto's shirt sleeves and cooling his coffee. He yawns and turns a page of his magazine absently. There's grit in his eyes and he ought to go home at some point, if only to see if any more of his plants have died. But he's awake now, and he's comfortable here; the bead curtain rattling a perfect counterpoint to the creak of the night's kinks easing out of his shoulders.  
Toshiko arrives first; coffee in one hand and her PDA in the other. Ianto presses the button for her with another yawn, and sand swirls briefly around her ankles. Toshiko shrugs at it, and smiles back at him. She says _'morning,_ ' in her vague, pretty way, and disappears into the tunnels; coffee tucked under her arm, typing as she goes.  
There was sand on Jack's desk last night too. Ianto finds the broom, making a mental note to find out where the building work is as he sweeps it out of the open door - there could be scaffolding, it always helps to know when he's looking for Jack - and then scrawls _hoover_ on a yellow post-it and sticks it to the corner of his screen.

  
"So who was that bloke?"  
"What bloke?" Gwen's running late. Coffee in one hand and a shoe in the other, she frowns at Rhys as she swallows the last of her toast.  
"The one who came here with Jack. When you were having your -"  
"If you use the word episode one more time, Rhys Williams, I swear I will strangle you."  
"Your thing, then."  
"That thing that I don't remember."  
"That's the one."  
"I don't remember. Look, love, I've got to go." She smiles, but she's already gone. "I'm going to be late."  
He follows her into the hallway; watches her bend, lace and tuck. When she turns for another kiss he can see the gun in her bag. She dumps her house keys on top of it and shuts the flap, smiling apologetically, and kisses him again. Longer this time, like she means it.  
"It's just Jack said he worked with you, that's all, Gwen. I thought I'd met everyone, but he wasn't there when I came in."  
"I don't remember. All right? Maybe it was Owen. Does it matter?"

  
And that's it; she's gone, leaving an ' _I love you,_ ' and a ' _see you later_ ' hanging behind the door. No when, just washing up on the table and last night's still in the sink, no milk in the fridge and nothing much else either.  
When he asked her to marry him, he was hoping she'd be _his_ wife...  
But he's not going there. She's not his mother: she's Gwen, and it's his ring she's wearing - no matter how well Jack fails to be ugly - and there's still no milk.

  
There's a warm wind blowing in off the Bay. It smells like rain but there's sand in the air too, swirling and dancing; round his feet and along the centre of the pavement, a thin wisp following him into the shop.  
Maybe it's out of milk too - it'll have to wait its turn though; the teenager with the attitude is on his phone in the back again, and there's a queue. The two old biddies at the front are discussing Eastenders with a baby-faced girl dragging a toddler and a babe in a pushchair, and after a second there's someone behind him too; a bloke with windblown, sandy hair, a copy of the _Sport_ under one arm, juggling a sandwich and a four-pint bottle of semi-skimmed.  
It's him. That bloke. It's not Owen; this one's got a bland sort of face - nothing ratty about him. Did he ever catch a name?  
"Getting supplies for later?" A friendly hand claps him warmly on the shoulder and Rhys blinks. There's sand in his eyes. He feels a bit sick, too, come to think of it. Maybe he's getting whatever Gwen had.  
"Come on, Rhys, it's Wednesday, remember? Don't splash out, mate, it's my treat tonight - you coughed up last week."  
He's right. It's all that crap with Gwen's work - how did he forget Wednesday night? Regular as clockwork, same time every week: a take-out, a couple of beers with the footie on the big screen.  
At least there's one thing in his life he can rely on.  
"Yeah, 'course it is. Sorry, mate - I'd lose my head if it wasn't screwed on."  
"So, you got time for a brew, then?"  
"I dunno; have you? Or is that tosser Jack working you too hard?"  
The wind's dropped when they get outside. It's a beautiful day, and all's right with the world.  
"I'll make time if you need it, mate. Something on your mind?"  
"Have I ever. I tell you what, it's a bloody good job I've got you to talk to; I'd go nuts with all this otherwise."  



End file.
